Samira Surfs

Cox’s Bazar, BangladeshJanuary 2012 Inside Our HouseOur house, made of bamboochopped by Baba’s bare hands,sits on a hill with other housesjust like ours.The roof is crinkly blue plastic,noisy in the wind,hot in the afternoon sun.Rain drips through its holes,making dirt puddleson the ground.Inside, we have a single roomfor the four of us.Mama and Baba’s sleeping matcovers one corner.Close by, Mama’s silver potand Baba’s old spit cup,stained red from his betel leaf.Khaled stores a cricket batin his corner.Next to it, on the floor, ismy brother’s blue notebook.He tucked it in the waistbandof his longyiand brought it all the way fromBurma.What’s mine is a stool that holdsmy special blanket,Nani’s gift to baby me.It’s torn and frayed,but when I brush it against my skinon cool winter nights,me and Nani are together again,cheek to cheek.My stomach twistswhen I think aboutwhat littlemade it here with us.But things don’t make a home.Family does,even those still in Burma.Nani and Nana do,even though they are gone. EggsOur eggs go plop-plop into water,bubble and mist as they simmerin Mama’s silver pot.When they’re ready,she spoons them outand sets them in my bucket.Our livelihood lies betweenthese brittle white shells.My job is to sellas many hard-boiled eggs as I canto beachgoersin Cox’s Bazar.Each oval bringsmoney to my palmand foodto the belliesin my family. SaltLast night, Baba said,“If you sell all your eggs, Samira,we can buy extra salt to keep.”He was squatting on the floor,wrapping coconut, fennel, and nuts in betel leaf.It’s his favorite treat.A spiral of joy rose in my belly.Salt crystals transform Mama’s dahl.Beneath my crossed legs,the prickly straw matsuddenly felt smooth.A bucket of eggsturns into bundles of takaturns into pinches of saltturns into mouthfuls of joy.I send out a wishto sell all my eggs.Come extra hungry to the beach, tourists! Scoot LowEvery morning,a narrow milky streamof drip-drop pouring chatumbles from highto greet me.This is how Mama pours it.Moments with her at dawnbathe our day in sweetness.Baba is the first to leave.Shrimping is early work.Next, Khaled,to clean dishes and tablesfor the café at Seaview Hotel.Mama kisses me on the cheek.“Stay safe, Samira,” she says.I’m the last to go.Low, low I scoot,zigzagging down our sneaky steep hill.My walk is filled withsky, wrapped in pearly indigoair, crisp and still,and birds chirpingevery morning. KnowingI step past the woodsto meet a wide stretchof golden-gray sand.The beach goes beyond where I can see.Khaled says it’s the longest in the world!Café doors creak open.Outside, whiningpacks of stray dogsbeg for food,waiting for scrapsthat miss the rubbish.Fishermen throw out netsfor their daily catch.The sea, sparkly in the morning sun,breaks in little waves near the shore.My eyes follow their slow, gentle peeling.My ears tune in the gentle roarof water tumbling on sand.It sounds like water lapping at a boat,like the one we boarded to cross the riverwhen we left Burma,just me, Khaled, Mama, and Baba,and Nani and Nana.The others stayed behind:Hasina Auntie, Jamal Uncle,my cousin Shoba,and my best friend, Sahara.It’s been three monthssince the river tossed our boat,our chests sinking, stomachs plummeting.Water can be dangerousand beautiful at the same time.For now, I stay as far awayas I can.